


Carolina Drama

by Whreflections



Series: Carolina verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bloodplay, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Masochism, Modern Era, but extremely dub connish things happen, most of those ships are just mentioned but, they're there, this is angsty but I promise it's exR and it's not utterly soul crushing guys, with Montparnasse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had to break up with Enjolras if there was any hope of Enjolras ever having a normal life; Grantaire was sure of that.  What he was going to do with himself, however, was another question entirely, and one he had no answers for.  For the short term, his main focus has been to get Enjolras off his mind- and that's far easier said than done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carolina Drama

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I don't even know. lkjsdf
> 
> 1\. So for a few weeks now, I've been having the urge to write porn in which Grantaire had masochistic tendencies and Enjolras was not himself a sadist BUT seeing Grantaire take pleasure from it was enough to make him enjoy it enough to participate with him, so it was just an aspect that was occasionally present in their sex life. THIS IS NOT THAT. Because the scene that kept popping into my head, Enjolras was being unnaturally hesitant, so I wanted to get to the root of the why and then
> 
> 2\. I wrote this. And suddenly had a head full of head canons for a verse in which the boys are going to school at Coastal Carolina University near Myrtle Beach and Grantaire has lived in South Carolina all his life and Enjolras is an environmental activist/studies environmental science and animal behavior and shit and I don't even know, guys; I could tell you how many tattoos Grantaire has and where they are and why and what color Jehan painted his bedroom, x.x 
> 
> 3\. So basically if somehow you guys like this, I could eventually do other oneshots from this verse. Just...lemme know. and I'm gonna just post this now, cause I've been slightly anxious about it for days because I don't even know what this is and just, here, take it, I'm gonna go shower and watch Vikings, lmao
> 
> 4\. Carolina Drama is a fucking awesome song by The Raconteurs. It has nothing to do with this, other than I thought the title would suit both, lmao (but you should totally listen to it, ^^)

Grantaire’s phone buzzed against his nightstand, finally edging far enough to take a death leap onto the hardwood floor.  He swore, his shaky hands struggling to navigate the quilt wrapped around him before he could move it enough to reach over the side of the bed.  He leaned forward to grope haphazardly at the floor until his fingers fell on his iPhone, sliding first against the slick back of his new case.  When he managed to grip it he tossed it onto the bed to smack against his stomach where he lay on his side, unwilling to flop over onto his stinging back.  He’d stripped his shirt off again soon as he’d come home, gone for the quilt and hardly moved since. 

Resettled, he took his phone in hand and lit the screen with a push of the button.  He swallowed hard once he saw the screen though really, it could’ve been worse.  Four missed calls, and it looked like over the course of the night/morning(afternoon?  The sun was far along in its progression against his wall; it had to be late.) he’d been texted by everyone but Montparnasse.  He laughed a little at that, half breathless, and he began the process of sorting it all out.  Enjolras had called three times in the span of the past hour; the first he’d missed was Courfeyrac’s, and it was likely that step that had brought Enjolras down on him.  Or, it could’ve been…

He scrolled to his conversation with Enjolras, biting his lip. 

_I had thought you might at least say hello._

_Sorry.  If you don’t want to talk to me, I understand._

_Actually no, I don’t.  If you say nothing else, you could at least tell me what the hell I did to push you away.  Don’t I deserve that much?_

_Suppose not._

_Look, I’m sorry about last night, I shouldn’t have said…it’s your business why you left.  We’re fine, really._

_…Grantaire?_

_At least text someone back, even if it isn’t me.  You’ve got everyone worried._

_If you don’t answer me by five, I’m coming over there._

Grantaire groped for his alarm clock, twisting it around so it actually faced the bed instead of the wall where he usually turned it to keep the light out of his eyes, only to see that it was 5:30 already.  Damn.  He’d certainly been well out of it, wasn’t really too far past it even then to be honest.  It had only been his phone clattering to the floor that shook him out of his uncomfortable half sleep to stir.  His shivering still seemed nearly uncontrollable, bone deep, and he clung to the phone till he was white knuckled.  He’d have to deal with this one piece at a time. 

He rolled out of bed, winced at the pain and did his best to ignore it as he stumbled to the bathroom across his mess of a floor, did his best to piss and wash his hands without looking in the mirror.  On the counter there were three different room temperature bottles of water, all filled to varying levels, and he unscrewed the cap on the most empty to take a small sip.  His stomach didn’t rebel, which was at least one good sign.  He fucking hated puking.  After another sip, he let the pull of his blankets draw him back to the warm spot in his bed. 

With his left hand he drew the quilt up around his shoulders, tucking himself in as tight as he possibly could.  He tapped the screen with his thumb, thinking, finally flipped it to its side so he could easily text with both hands.  He selected Marius, skimmed his eyes over the most recent received message that read-

_What the hell have you done?  I’m gone for a weekend and everyone calls me looking for you?  Look, I told Enjolras you were alright but I don’t know that he believed me, and I don’t know that it’s true.  Call me.  Please._

_Better yet, call Courfeyrac; he’s actually in the same state._

“ _Fuck_.”  Grantaire pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, gave himself a whole ten seconds to try and be angry at Marius for his likely very unconvincing lies before his fingers flitted over the touch screen. 

_You’re a fucking horrible liar.  You know he can’t have believed you.  If you’re going to lie to someone about me, lie to Jehan._

Not that he liked that thought, really.  Jehan would believe it, convince Courfeyrac of it, and if he ever found out it wasn’t true, the look he’d give Grantaire would be so pitifully betrayed that…  No, that might not be worth it.  He’d hardly started to bury himself and his hands into the blankets again when he had an answer, phone humming insistently against his palm. 

_Where were you?_

Grantaire sucked in a sharp breath, rubbed his thumb for a moment just under the screen, caught up in deciding how truthful he wanted to be.  Did he tell Marius how he’d started the night at the party with the others and leave it at that?  Grantaire doubted he’d buy it, now that he knew something was wrong.  He had at least tried to stay at the party, but all he’d been able to do was watch Enjolras across the room and it had burned him, flaring embers in his lungs every time he took a breath.  By the time Montparnasse had put a hand to his shoulder and reminded him that the offer he’d made ages back still stood and they could get out of there together, he was drunk enough to think it a good idea, sober enough to make up his mind and far beyond miserable enough to hope it might clear his head. 

Kneeling on a concrete floor, the chill of the basement already sinking into his bare legs as his hands were bound with rough rope, all he’d been able to think about was Enjolras.  It had all come back to him in a rush, memories of warm fingertips and cold metal against his skin, of the way Enjolras never failed to bow his head to kiss the inside of his wrists as he clicked the cuffs into place.  Every time there was reverence in his touch, in his eyes.

Grantaire had twisted his hands in the rope, the unpleasant burn sparking him for a moment to actually struggle.  God he hated it, hated the way it rubbed at him like sandpaper, hated the irrational fear it brought to his throat.  He flexed his hands, tried to remind himself that of all his limits, his aversion to _this_ had no basis beyond those fairly simple reasons for hatred, tried to keep from remembering the way Enjolras had untied it lightning quick the one time they'd tried it, taken Grantaire’s face in his hands and kissed him as he told him no reason to say ‘no’ was insufficient, not in this.  Montparnasse had gripped his chin and tipped his head up, drawing him to look into eyes that glittered with predatory fire, and he’d swallowed the bitter taste that rose in his mouth. 

There were no safewords there, even if he’d brought himself to use his.  He’d never gone so far with Montparnasse before but he’d dabbled a little, years ago.  The man was good for a transaction; you got what you asked for, and he got to draw a little blood, and he got off, and you didn’t ask any further questions.  It was simple, perfectly straightforward, devoid of feeling; everything his life currently lacked.  He’d thought it might buy him a night of sleep, an hour without Enjolras’ face behind his eyes and the pain in his chest. 

Instead, it had been all he could do to keep Enjolras’ name off his lips, a plea rather than a moan.  He’d been curious about the cut of a whip for ages, had licked his lips and felt his cock stir before at the thought of how sharply the crack of it against his back might sting, and the first strokes themselves did not disappoint him.  There was pleasure in it, the sudden burning slice of it across his shoulders, and his cock had gone half hard after the first stroke.  It didn’t last.  The lashes themselves might have been everything he could’ve hoped for but the circumstances were something else entirely, Montparnasse’s voice low and mocking from his distance. 

_You’ve missed this, haven’t you, Grantaire?  Can’t go a month without bloodying yourself somehow, is that it?  Who did you get it from, if not from me?  I doubt he’d have done it for you, doubt he’d dirty his pretty hands to stoop that low.  Did he push you away when he found out how dark you really are, hm?  It’s no matter to me, I know you, I know what you are; you can always come to me._

He’d closed his eyes, bore the strikes and willed himself not to shake, to take it instead as punishment deserved.  It was, he’d thought, honestly more appropriate than taking it for pleasure anyway, with what he’d done.  His breath came shallow and quick, ribs tightening.  The first time Enjolras had slid the cuffs from his hands and seen the wounds left behind he’d pulled Granatire’s hands close, already examining as he apologized, all until Grantaire’s quick _I don’t mind, it’s good; I mean I…fuck._ had cut him off.  Of all the emotions Enjolras had ever had for him, all the way from initial infuriated frustration when they first met to worry to love, judgment on _that_ had never been part of any of it.  Montparnasse was wrong, and still, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel he was right in ways he didn’t mean to be. 

He was an alcoholic artist, living largely off the money he made doing commission sketches down on the beach and at Barefoot Landing and the charity of Marius’ grandfather, a man who’d grown easy with his flow of money toward his grandson ever since he’d nearly died in a car accident his freshman year of college.  Over the last year there’d been student loans to help with that income, an addition spurred by Enjolras’ enthusiastic suggestion that he start work on an art degree.  That meager progress aside, he was a fucking wreck.  He drank, smoked, painted his nightmares onto canvas to get them out of his head, had never held a steady job…he was everything Enjolras wasn’t, everything his well off family would never allow into the fold.  That their son was gay they had come to accept, but bringing _Grantaire_ home, well. 

He’d done his best to look presentable, he had, but he’d been wearing Enjolras’ shirt and it was tight and before he knew it, it had ridden up to show the tattoo at his left hip, a rail thin thestral in flight he’d gotten the day he turned 18.  Not that Enjolras’ mother would have known what it was or that it would have mattered if she had; by his guess she saw the sharp cut of those bat wings and had seen enough.  He doubted it would’ve mattered if he’d had a tattoo of a cross, honestly; ink at all seemed to be an offense.  Her eyes had gone wide, and though he’d tugged the hem of the shirt down quick, he’d caught the moment of disgust as it flickered across her face.  Enjolras, who’d likely noticed nothing beyond Grantaire’s sudden discomfort, had put his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders with a solidarity that had pained him.  Even if Enjolras didn’t want to admit how impossible the situation was, Grantaire could hardly fail to see it. 

He could hardly fail, too, to miss the way they argued over him after that trip, Enjolras’ words turning harsh on phone calls home just before he’d get up to go outside to continue them.  He could hardly blame them; they might have looked at slightly different criteria, but he could see the same truth they could- their boy was too good for the likes of him.  He was only twenty two, young and strong and brilliant, the kind of man that could go on to change the world if he wanted(and of course, he did).  He had no need of a weight like Grantaire to hold him back. 

He was a shadow across Enjolras’ life, on that Grantaire could agree with his family and Montparnasse both.  It hadn’t been so hard to draw his mind to think of the whip as earned punishment, remembering all of that.  His cock had gone soft, his shoulders tensing under the blows.  He’d bit his tongue until it bled, managed to maintain silence other than the slight rasp in his breath.  When the whip stopped he could hear Montparnasse moan behind him, could imagine how he might look with his leather pants undone, hand quick on his own cock as he stared bright eyed at the blood Grantaire could feel welling in the welts on his back. 

When he roughly jerked the knots free on the rope that bound Grantaire’s hands, he patted his back as he whispered, _You’re welcome._  

He could tell Marius none of that.  He knew of the marks occasionally visible on Grantaire’s skin, had seen himself the way the slow stroke of Enjolras’ finger over a shallow cut just below the inside of his elbow could make him settle and lean into Enjolras’ side, knew that _before_ Enjolras he hadn’t always been safe, but still, he knew no details, wouldn’t have wanted to know.  Close as they’d become over the last few years, that side of him wasn’t something Marius would be able to understand.  Courfeyrac, on the other hand, knew everything, just as he had since the two of them were four years old and navigating daycare together with varying levels of success. 

Grantaire touched the screen gone dim while he thought, typing rapidly.

_Courfeyrac’s gonna kill me; let’s leave it at that._

His answer came in five seconds. 

_Are you alright?_

He found himself wondering if _no_ or _fuck no_ would be more appropriate, chose instead to close the message and begin another, selecting everyone’s name but Marius’ from his list of friends.  

_I’m fine, slept all day.  Still hungover, not my finest hour but I’ve had worse.  Sorry guys.  You can stop worrying._

He’d barely sent it when a reply from Enjolras came through.  

_Mind coming to the door for a minute to tell me that in person?  I’m just walking up your street._

His stomach clenched and he sat up, quilt still clutched around him like a cloak. (As he did, a reply from Courfeyrac came through.  He glanced briefly at the words _We’re having a serious talk later.  You need me?_ before shutting the message.)  God, everything hurt.  He _was_ hungover, sort of.  His muscles ached like they hadn’t in years, far more than the scene itself would’ve caused.  He’d tried to drink every last fucking bit of his life off his mind after he got home but he’d ended up curled up in the middle of the bed, his flask shoved under his old pillow(the one he’d used for the past month was the stupid foam thing Enjolras had picked out, too firm to be comfortable).  He’d still managed to drink enough to be fairly wasted before that point, though, but the shivery desire to not leave his cocoon of blankets had kept him bolted to the bed, preventing him from hauling his drunk ass to the kitchen for his ‘glass of water and two Motrin before bed after drinking’ rule.  He hadn’t dealt with muscle cramps from dehydration since his early days with alcohol, back when it was all new and he and Courfeyrac had tipped little bottles of Crown into cans of vanilla coke as they sat on Jehan’s back porch on a summer evening and listened to him read Walt Whitman.     

His thighs ached and his back fucking _blazed_ with heat and pain and going to the door to look Enjolras in the face and feel his chest rip open all over again sounded like the absolute worst venture he could possibly attempt. 

_Look, I feel like shit.  Lemme stay in bed, ok?  I’m sorry I scared you.  I’m fine._

That reply took longer.  Grantaire held his breath waiting for it until he couldn’t anymore, shut his eyes instead.  In his fingers, his phone buzzed to life. 

_Can I grab the key and step in for just a minute then?  I thought you might be hungover; I brought you McDonald’s._

Another message came, right on its heels.

_R, please.  Let me see that you’re alright and I promise I’ll go._

Grantaire dropped his phone to his nightstand, leaned forward to bury his face in his hands.  If anyone had ever told him four years ago the god of a young man he’d fallen in love with in a dingy café near campus was begging to be let in, forget laughing, he’d have punched them for their audacity.  Sometimes lately, he could bring himself to almost hope he’d never met Enjolras, almost hope he’d never known what it was like to love him, but he couldn’t go that far, couldn’t bear to wish him into nonexistence.  His love for Enjolras wasn’t the problem after all; the problem was Grantaire, who’d gotten too close to the sun. 

Enjolras burned for his passions like nothing Grantaire had even seen, threw himself into his work on their behalf with a fervor that drew people to his flame.  Grantaire had loved to watch him at it, right up until the moment he realized he’d somehow been added to that list himself, become a thing Enjolras fought _for_ and not merely with.  Then, it was all a dream right until he came to his senses, a glorious two and a half years of being coaxed away from his whiskey with kisses, of Enjolras’ body pressed up against his from behind as he worked on a painting simply so he could whisper _gorgeous_ against Grantaire’s ear.  When they fought it was wild, screaming matches that left his throat sore and his eyes red, but it was never the end, never even felt like it could be.  They were drawn back to each other, reliable as the infinite rise and fall of the tide.  He’d let Enjolras love him, and for that, he could never forgive himself.  To be so tied to him was a fate Grantaire wouldn’t have wished on anyone. 

Grantaire sighed, swiped his phone back off the night stand to answer. 

_Hold on; I’ll come to the door._

No matter how much seeing him at all would hurt, Enjolras letting himself in and coming all the way to his room would hit a different level of pain.  He stood up carefully, debated pulling on one of the shirts littering his floor only to wince at the thought of the movements of his shoulders that would take.  The quilt was heavy and it pulled painfully against his skin, but at least it was warm and he didn’t have to actually put it properly on.  He gripped both ends in one hand in front of him, left his phone on the bed and made his way out into the living room, then upstairs to the front door.  He took a last deep breath before yanking it open, leaning against the frame as he blinked at the sudden brightness of daylight framing Enjolras, dressed in faded red jeans and an old V-necked white t-shirt fraying around the edges.  A sack of food dangled from his fingers, with a cold bottle of water tucked under his arm, condensation wetting his shirt.  The smile he gave Grantaire when he looked up was tight, controlled like he’d practiced it.  He didn’t look he’d slept, maybe not for two nights.   

No, no, he was wrong.  This wasn’t painful; it was damn near unbearable. 

Enjolras opened the storm door before Grantaire could reach it, let it lean against his back as he stepped just a little closer. 

“You didn’t have to get up, I-“

“Hey, it’s fine.  Thank you.  I know you hate-“  Grantaire swallowed, hating how he couldn’t get through a damn sentence without making it hurt.  But he was here, bringing Grantaire McDonald’s when he hated McDonald’s, all because he knew there was nothing like the grease in their double cheeseburger to settle Grantaire’s stomach if he woke up throwing up.  With all the protests and petitions and papers and lab reports that kept him up all hours of the night, Enjolras hadn’t always been the most attentive boyfriend, but when Grantaire needed him, he never failed to pass with goddamn flying colors. 

He absolutely _could not_ cry; not just then, not over a damn hamburger.  He cleared his throat, spoke softly. 

“Thank you.  I haven’t eaten, so...”  He shrugged, regretted the movement.  “Listen, about last night, it wasn’t that I just didn’t answer you; I didn’t answer anyone, I-“

“I know, it’s ok.”  Restless as always, Enjolras shifted, took the water from against his side to hold it out first.  “Here.” 

Grantaire muttered his thanks again, wondered absently how many times he’d say it.  His fingertips were already brushing the droplets of water on the side of the bottle before he remembered the marks on his wrists; by then, it was too late to pull back and besides, how exactly could he have hidden it?  He looked up in time to catch the pained expression on Enjolras’ face, and it hit him like a kick to the stomach.  God, he was an idiot.  He should never have come to the door, never agreed to see Enjolras at all today.  After a month of trying to put as much distance between them as he could manage, Enjolras’ pleading had been impossible to resist but he should’ve, he _should’ve_ because now all he’d managed was to hurt him again. 

Grantaire’s fingers closed around the bottle.  “Enjolras, I-“

Enjolras’ hand gripped the back of his, turning it and drawing it more into the sunlight so he could see clearly.  The pained look had left him, replaced by scrutiny and tightness at the corners of his eyes. 

“This is rope burn.” 

“How would you know that?”  Of all things that could’ve possibly left his mouth, that was easily one of the most irrelevant. 

“I’ve seen more than enough pictures to know.”  The words were deliberately causal, his eyes still locked on Grantaire’s skin.  He pictured Enjolras at his desk, homework set aside while he researched restraint.  Grantaire leaned just a little harder against the doorframe, his chest tight.  Enjolras still held his hand, tilting it, eyes darkening by the minute as he took in the line of raw skin that encircled his wrist.  “Who did this to you?” 

The shivering that had dialed back a bit since he’d stood looking at Enjolras returned, too quick for him to pull his hand away and hide it. 

“It’s fine, I-“

“The hell it is.”  There was steel in his voice then, a righteous fury Grantaire was well acquainted with after so many nights of listening to his speeches.  This, this was Enjolras riled and burning, and for a moment, he was speechless.  He might have seen it before, but he’d never seen it over him, not like this.  “Rope is a limit; you hate it.”  His voice faltered only a little, and Grantaire’s fingers tightened on the bottle he held, certain Enjolras stumbled over the memory that had plagued him after he’d been tied the night before.  He took a deep breath, pushed forward.  “If he took advantage of you-“

“I wasn’t _that_ drunk.”  At that point, at least.

“So you asked for this?” 

“I knew what I was doing, Enjolras.”

“That’s not an answer to the question I asked.” 

He felt pinned by Enjolras’ gaze and he looked anywhere but at his face, focusing in for a moment on the magnolia tree out in the yard before he let his eyes drop. 

“Look, what does it matter?  It’s done, and I knew what I was getting into.  If I got more than I asked for, it’s my own fault for being an idiot.” 

“It matters because whether or not you knew going home with him was a bad choice to make, no man has the right to hurt you.” 

“I agreed to it; I let him do it, I’m pretty sure that’s all the consent that’s-“

“Did you enjoy it?  Would you have asked for it?”  The pain was there again, tearing at the edges of his sentences.  Grantaire couldn’t lie, not to him, not even when he wanted to.  He tried instead to mutter as quickly as possible. 

“Some of it.” 

Enjolras let go of his hand, sat the paper bag he still held in his other hand down on the porch as he sank into the old rocking chair tucked onto their narrow porch.  Cosette had wanted it, but she was hardly ever there now that she’d gone off to pursue her dreams of dance with a ballet company in Chicago.  It was covered in spider webs and they’d always avoided it, but just then, Enjolras looked as if he wouldn’t have noticed if they’d emerged in full force to scuttle all over him. 

He leaned his forehead against interlocked hands, elbows resting on his knees, and if Grantaire had been able to do more than catch the door as it tried to creak shut and hold it open with his foot, he would have.  He longed to touch him, to sit down on the arm of the stupid chair and kiss the bared nape of his neck, to run his fingers through Enjolras’ hair and feel him lean into the touch like he knew he would have but he forced it all back, his thoughts a constant litany of _youcan’tyoucan’tyoucan’t_.  He _couldn’t_ , not anymore.  He’d given up the right. 

Instead he waited, slipped his hand back inside the house to drop the bottle of water on the floor before shifting sides of the door he leaned on to hold the screen door open a little wider, the quilt now clutched around him with both hands. 

“I know I can’t expect there won’t be anyone else; I know that.  I can accept that, if I have to.”  God, he sounded wrecked, and still his words were just a little bit crisper, just like they always were when he chose them carefully.  “But I can’t pretend my feelings have changed, and it doesn’t seem too much to ask that you be safe.  If nothing else I’m still your friend.  You need to find someone you trust.”  

“That’s a short list.”  Very short.  In fact, Enjolras knew every name on it, and not a one of them was an option.  Well.  Not really.  There were two among the number that _had_ been options, Enjolras himself and Courfeyrac, back from the days before he’d gotten together with Jehan, when they occasionally fell into bed together.  It had started, ironically enough, because Courfeyrac had shared Enjolras’ fears.  If Grantaire wanted to scratch those nonconventional itches, Courfeyrac had rather he did it with him than wait until he impulsively played roulette with himself and chose a stranger.  It was all long over and done with, ancient history.  “He has Jehan now, and…”  And then there was Enjolras. 

“There’s got to be someone; he’s the top of your list for trust I know but-“

“No he isn’t.”  God _damn_ his fucking mouth. 

Enjolras looked up, his eyes dark and guarded.  “You know Marius has Cosette.  Besides, I doubt he could understand.”

“I know he does, and you’re right he wouldn’t, but I wasn’t talking about Marius.”  He needed to shut up, desperately, but of all the things he was trying to teach himself to bear about their separation, apparently Enjolras believing he didn’t trust him was one that couldn’t be borne.  The idea was too abhorrent, too impossible.   He’d never trusted anyone so implicitly. 

“Cosette-“

“No.” 

Enjolras rocked forward and pushed himself to his feet, pacing the porch as he looked out into the yard.  His shoulders were drawn tight, a tension that traced down his arms as he reached out to lean against the railing, fingers wrapping round the thin iron at the top. 

“You know I trust you.”  Grantaire whispered, hardly sure he wanted Enjolras to hear, not sure if it would help or hurt. 

From the sharp not quite laugh that burst from Enjolras’ lungs, he’d have guessed it didn’t particularly help. 

“And how would I know that?  I know you _did_ , once.  And then it was over, no explanation, no-“  His weight shifted just a little harder into his shoulders, leaning more against the railing that pressed against his palms.  “Of all the hundred times I’ve been over everything in my head, I’ve yet to find the answer.  That I’d somehow lost your trust seemed a reasonable enough part of it to assume so no, Grantaire, I don’t _know_ anything because all you told _me_ is that you couldn’t do it anymore.” 

In the aftermath of those words his breath came ragged, and Grantaire slipped out the door to come closer, letting it bang shut behind him.  The smooth concrete of the porch was warm against the soles of his feet, the air nearly stifling, and still he shivered. 

“Trust had nothing to do with it.  You never lost it.  I don’t see how you ever could.” 

Enjolras’ back straightened, though he kept his eyes on his hands, on thumbs he rubbed against the railing.  From where he stood, Grantaire could see chips of the old black paint fall down into the grass. 

“If not that, then tell me what I did.”  He said it so low, so weary, as practiced as the smile he’d given Grantaire at the door.  If he checked, it was probably repeated in a few of the voicemails Grantaire hadn’t been able to bring himself to listen to. 

“Enjolras,-“

“I deserve to know.  You’ve avoided me for weeks, text me back but never spoken to me on the phone.  I know you’re hiding something from me, and believe me, I’ve spent fucking _hours_ trying to figure it out, but I’ve got nothing, and I have to be honest with you-“  He turned around, hands spread wide as he shook his head helplessly.  “You’re impossible.  So am I.  We’ve made it work despite that, and I’d be willing to fight anyone who said we couldn’t take any challenge given to us, even you.  I love you.  I always will.  I don’t understand how after all we’ve been through you expect me to stop, how you expect me to just…”  He gestured vaguely at the steps, cracked and uneven, never fixed though they’d been just as dangerous the day he, Marius, Courfeyrac and Cosette moved in.  At the party they’d had the night Cosette left he’d stumbled on them, ended up caught in Enjolras' arms.  He’d pulled Enjolras down for a thank you kiss, and they made out against the wall until they heard the slam of the neighbor’s car door. 

It wasn’t what he was meant to take from the gesture, he knew, but it was all that came to mind; the buzz of Tennessee whiskey and the burn of Enjolras’ hands under his shirt.  Grantaire drew in a sharp breath, and Enjolras continued.

“How can I carry on with everything else without you?  I can’t get a damn thing done, I-“

Grantaire’s shoulders hunched, the words surprisingly painful.  He knew it wasn’t the point, _knew_ it and still there was a part of him that couldn’t help but think, _of course, it comes back to his work_. 

“God knows you’ve got enough to do; sorry I-“

“ _Don’t_.”  Enjolras’ hands slammed against the siding on either side of his head, hemming him in against the house.  So close, his eyes were clearly too bright, brimming with unshed tears of his own and _God_ , Grantaire couldn’t have looked away for anything.  “I have included you in _everything_ , even when all you can do is mock our efforts.  Of the two of us, _you’re_ the one skilled at exclusion.” 

He did have a point, of course.  No one could debate like Enjolras.  He’d come to the Musain again and again to hear Enjolras speak after that first night, slowly got to know the young man it was so easy for him to frustrate, and he’d come to realize those talks were only a touch of what Enjolras did.  There were petitions, protests in the free speech zones on campus, campaigns to raise awareness on everything from alternative fuel sources to the disappearance of the rainforest and the plight facing red wolves.  Once they were together, he’d dragged Grantaire in his wake to everything he possibly could; Grantaire had gotten way too good at setting up folding tables and concocting ways to make students stop on their way to class(for the best results, he’d learned to include food).  Enjolras _had_ included him and he’d done his best to be worthy of being included(not that he always managed).  There’d be days on end(around finals, particularly) where it seemed he nearly ceased to exist in Enjolras’ eyes, but that was bearable, understandable.  In all the time they’d been together, Enjolras had never purposefully ignored him, had certainly never done like Grantaire had now and cut him out so absolutely. 

Grantaire licked dry lips, tried and failed to look away.  “I’m sorry.” 

“For which part?”  Breathing hard, Enjolras shifted closer, though he kept a careful distance between them.  They touched nowhere, and Grantaire longed for the press of his body.  He was so damn cold.  “If you’d tell me what the hell I did-“

“You didn’t do anything.”   He could hardly help it; the more Enjolras talked, the more this had started to fall under the heading of ‘things Grantaire couldn’t withstand’.  It was half at least of why he’d done his best to keep his distance; making a quick break for it was one horrible, horrible thing, but seeing Enjolras deal with the aftermath, that was something else entirely. 

Enjolras turned his head, his jaw tight.  “This other man, then, he-“

“God no, I never-“  He reached out, stopped himself just short of laying his hand to Enjolras’ chest.  “It wasn’t like that.  It never could be; not when I had you.”  Fuck, of all days to be facing this conversation…if it came at all, he’d hoped it might be a few months down the road.  His voice shook, and Enjolras seemed to break out of his concentration enough to take in everything, his quivering shoulders under the quilt even in the heat of a South Carolina spring. 

As carefully as if he expected Grantaire to dissolve beneath his fingers, he reached for the edges of the quilt, seeking to peel it away from his skin.  Grantaire flinched and Enjolras froze, the fabric only minutely lifted.  Still, for those clever eyes Grantaire was sure it was enough; he’d be able to see the angry red lines at the tops of his shoulders, see no doubt remnants of blood that stuck to the white cloth.  Grantaire held his breath, waiting for angry words that didn’t come.  There was only the warm pressure of Enjolras’ palm against his collarbone, so familiar he could’ve sobbed. 

“Tell me you want me to go, and I will, or let me come in and take care of you.  No conditions.  I can leave as soon as you want.” 

Any hope of winning the battle against actually crying was gone.  He hastily wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, struggling in vain to hide his tears and hating that he tried; they’d never hidden from each other before. 

“It’s fine; I’m-“

“Do you want me to go?” 

Even trying, Grantaire wasn’t sure he could manage to say ‘yes’.  He hadn’t had to, before.  _He’d_ been the one to leave, to stay sober so he could choose his words and not take them back, to say it wasn’t working, the two of them, and he couldn’t do it anymore, to spit it out as quick as he could and leave Enjolras in his room.  He’d wandered aimlessly for hours, his only focus distance.  By sunset, he called Joly to come pick him up because he knew Enjolras would expect him to be with Courfeyrac.  He’d spent the night in their spare room, crying his fucking eyes out, and though they kept their word and didn’t tell Enjolras he was there, Bossuet had muttered darkly that it wasn’t right, what he was doing; nothing could be right if to do it wrecked you so completely. 

Grantaire never had put much stock in his own willpower, even when he’d made up his mind to try and rid Enjolras of his poisonous influence.  If it worked, he’d known it would be because he kept himself from temptation, from opportunities to cave and concede all the ground he’d gained.  To tell Enjolras he couldn’t do it anymore had held a shred of truth; it was true enough that he could hardly bear to see the pain he managed to inflict on the man he loved.  To say he wanted him to go…how could he?  How could it ever sound real? 

He tried; he could give himself that much at least.  His lips parted, he gave himself a few breaths to think and-

“ _Fuck_.  I…no.  No.” 

Enjolras’ arms came around him, and for that instant at least, he could hardly regret it.  Enjolras held him lightly, already conscious of the weight of his arms against Grantaire’s back though he couldn’t yet know the extent of the wounds.  He leaned into Enjolras’ chest, face tucked into the crook of his neck, and already he could feel the trembling start to fade.  For him, there was nowhere safer in all the world than those arms. 

Enjolras murmured to him softly, half intelligible, his voice only clearing after a moment of stroking his fingers carefully through Grantaire’s hair.  “Let’s go inside then.  I’ll have a look at those and get you back in bed.  Before I go, I can call Courfeyrac for you if you want.” 

Grantaire shifted his grip, fingers leaving the quilt to twist into Enjolras’ threadbare shirt. 

“And if I don’t want you to go?” 

Enjolras’ grip tightened, and Grantaire barely felt the press of Enjolras’ lips to his hair. 

“If you don’t want me to go, then we’re going to have to talk.” 

At a loss, Grantaire buried his face into Enjolras’ neck and breathed. 

\--------

Inside, Enjolras pulled the quilt from his shoulder gently but efficiently, hesitated a moment before brushing the tips of his fingers across the area in the middle of his back that felt the worst. 

“You still have everything in your drawer?”

“Yes.” 

“Lie down on your stomach; I’ll be right back.”  Grantaire nodded, shoved the rest of the blankets aside on his bed to stretch out on the sheet.  After a second of indecision, he pulled Enjolras’ pillow to him and folded his arms on top of it, resting his head on both.  By the time he’d done that, Enjolras was already picking his way back across the floor, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand and a washcloth in the other.  “This is going to hurt.” 

“It hurts already.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Enjolras shake his head once, his mouth set in a grim line, and then Enjolras was behind him, out of his field of vision.  He tried to relax, listened to the sound of the cap unscrewing and the slosh of liquid and tried not to tense in anticipation of the burn. 

“I can’t believe he left you like this.” 

“I left him.” 

“A man deserving of such a responsibility wouldn’t have let you; not without taking care of you first.” 

“Who said he was deserving?  He was willing; that was his sole qualification.”  The soaked washcloth pressed to the back of his left shoulder and Grantaire hissed in pain, burying his face into the crook of his elbow. 

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry.” 

“Shit, it’s not your fault.” 

Enjolras lifted the washcloth, gave him a moment before pressing it to the next segment of his back, just under the nape of his neck.  It felt vaguely like how he’d think it would feel to have his skin set on fire, like the lashes had been instead a dousing with kerosene. 

“Isn’t it?” 

“What?”  Enjolras had been quiet so long that with the distraction of the blaze in his skin, he’d lost the thread of the conversation. 

“My fault.  If you could’ve come to me, if I hadn’t-“

“I told you, you didn’t do anything; it’s my own damn fault, alright?  I’m an idiot.  You can’t argue that one with me.”

“I can, actually, but I’d rather hear your reasons.  If not me, then why?  I thought…”  He sighed, murmured an apology again under his breath as he lifted the washcloth and shifted it right.  “You seemed better, this past year.  Happy, even.” 

“I was.”   Like he’d never been in his life, like he’d never imagined he could be.  Last October, he’d crawled in Enjolras’ window to wake him in the middle of the night, and though it had been a battle to get him out of bed(he had a presentation to give in class the next morning), Grantaire had dragged him to drive to the beach for a walk, to take advantage of one of the last warm nights.  They’d stopped on the way back to eat at Waffle House and he spent five dollars in quarters playing music at the jukebox, and despite the fact that it was past three in the morning on a school night, he’d managed to have Enjolras laughing.  It was memories like that he couldn’t help but think sometimes needed to be kept under glass, held away from the tendency he had to want to cling to them too tight.  It was dangerous, loving anything that much, anyone or anything, past or present. 

Enjolras thumb skimmed his skin as he moved the cloth again, too slow to be accidental.  “You’re not making any sense, you know.  When you leave someone, it’s generally expected you have a reason.” 

“I do.  I did.  I…”  He pulled his head out of the crook of his arm, his face too hot, his words too muffled.  “I thought it’d be better this way.  And I’ve avoided you because I thought, well it’ll be hard on him at first but…you look like hell.”

Enjolras laughed, without humor.  “Combeferre all but demanded I give you space.  If not for that I’d have been here every night.  He said you might have something you needed to work out on your own, might….honestly, I can’t tell you half of what he’s told me.  He tries, but I haven’t been the easiest to talk to.  I’ve left you alone as much as I could because you seemed to want it and I thought, maybe Combeferre had a point.  We’re in each other’s space all the time, maybe you weren’t sure it was what you wanted anymore.  If it was that, I thought I could wait.  Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to stay away from you?”

Far too much of an idea, actually. 

“About as hard as it was to leave after I saw you last night?  Something like that, I’d imagine.” 

Enjolras’ hands paused in the movement of drawing the cloth away, frozen a moment before his fingers tightened, alcohol dripping from them to drop cold against Grantaire’s back. 

“I wasn’t the one to-“

“I saw the letter.”  He might as well get it all out, might as well spill the whole truth because Enjolras was relentless on the trail of answers and he was vulnerable and maybe, maybe if he pulled it all from his throat with enough force it’d leave him raw and he could shut up and nurse his own wounds and Enjolras would see wisdom and go.  Maybe, maybe.  Then, the pressure wouldn’t be on him to do the right thing; he’d have done enough.  “The acceptance from Tulane.  I know you think I don’t listen when you talk half the time but I _know_ you’ve said a dozen times how they’re the best environmental law program in the country.  It’s more than good opportunity; it’s perfect for you, but I know you, Enjolras.  I know you, and you’re too noble for your own damn good.  You’d stay with me if I let you, and how could I?  I’m the worst thing that’s happened to you in years; I’m a wreck, a constant worry and irritation and your family hates me, you know I think they actually hate me more than I expected which is impressive because I usually expect-“

None too gently, Enjolras rolled him onto his side, his grip shifting to Grantaire’s chin when he tried to turn his head.  “Would you like to hear about the worst thing to happen to me in the last few years?  Because that’s an easy choice; it’s the night Marius called me and told me you’d passed out and he wasn’t sure you were breathing at first and they had to take you to the hospital and I took Joly’s car because my hands were shaking so much I dropped my keys down the damn storm drain and I had to beg and plead and lie to get to you because you’re not my brother and they wouldn't have let me in as your boyfriend.  That night that I stayed there and watched you sleep, I have thought a thousand times that God willing that night will be the worst in my life, because the only, the _only_ thing worse than what I went through then would be if I actually lost you.  And you think,”  His eyes narrowed, wounded and furious.  “You think fighting with my parents or staying in South Carolina or disagreeing with you, on the _list_ of things I fear how could you think they even _rank_?”

Cowed, Grantaire could only shrink a little from him, though his chin stayed trapped in Enjolras’ fingers. 

“God, how do you think I felt last night when you didn’t answer me, when I heard you hadn’t answered anyone else either?  I had no idea where the fuck you were, if you were alone or too drunk to answer or if you’d finally progressed onto any of the drugs you’ve almost tried, and then I find out I had every reason to worry!  To come here, and see you like this, to know someone had you vulnerable and used that chance to hurt you?  And you want to sit there and tell me you did all this to protect _me_?”

Yeah, that was exactly what he’d tried to do.  Riled, he pushed himself to sit up, to pull away from Enjolras’ hand and face him properly.  “Tell me I was wrong then, tell me you’d have left if we were together.”

“Whether I accept the offer or not, it’s _my_ decision to make, not yours!  You don’t get to tell me what to do, and you certainly don’t get to tell me what’s important!  If I choose you; that’s _my_ choice.” 

“So I have no say in this relationship whatsoever?”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot; you have all the say you want about yourself, but if it is about you, tell me right now that’s what this is about.  You tell me how _exactly_ running away from a choice you were scared I might make makes it about you.  Better yet-“  His hand gripped tight at Grantaire’s shoulder, locking them together.  “You look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me.  Tell me you’re done.  _That_ , that would be up to you.”  He dropped his voice, his grip gentling.  “Or tell me you do, and accept that there is nothing more worth fighting for to me than this.  You’re right, I want to stay here, with you, but not for the reasons you think, not because I think I have to.  Because I _want_ to, and if you’d come to me, I would have told you so.  I can do good outside of the courtroom; I can do my work right here in South Carolina.  If I’m going to protect what wild places our country has left, why wouldn’t I start with the place that’s become my home, the place we met?  And, Grantaire, if my family can’t accept you, they won’t have me either.  And I will not be sorry.” 

It was everything he wanted, _everything_.  Grantaire looked down at this hands, flexed his fingers and watched the burn on his wrist shift. 

“I’m a fucking wreck.”

“I know.”  So calm, like it didn’t matter, like it never had. 

Grantaire closed his eyes, centered by the feel of Enjolras’ weight on the bed beside him, the way he could feel the slight radiating warmth of his body heat.  He’d felt lost in the absence of those points of reference, the reassurances of Enjolras’ presence. 

“You know, I think I loved you the night you nearly threw me out of the Musain for explaining that trash on the beach was as much a fact of nature by now as the gulls and the shells.”  He’d been so earnest in his certainty that people could be taught to keep it clean if only they knew the importance, if only they could be taught to care.  There, Grantaire had point out, was the problem.  No one cared enough, no one, and if it had been anyone else, he’d have laughed at them.  At Enjolras, he couldn’t laugh.  His faith was too unshakable, too remarkable to behold. 

“And now?”  Enjolras squeezed his shoulder lightly, hopeful. 

“Whether or not I loved you was never the problem, never even a question.” 

“Then tell me again- do you want me to stay?” 

Grantaire reached out to pull him close, seeking the comfort in his arms and the soft skin of his neck to kiss.  Enjolras held him, the slight tinge of salt on his skin stinging like hell against Grantaire’s back.  Not a word was needed. 

\--------

“Hey, have you seen my phone?”

“I found it in the sheets; it’s by your alarm clock.” 

Grantaire nodded his thanks, stepped around to pick up his phone and send off a text to Courfeyrac.

_Hey, sorry I didn’t answer earlier, there was a lot going on.  I’m alright; you can stay there.  Enjolras is here._

Just typing it, the words seemed to pulse warmth into his fingers through diffusion.  As he reached over to switch off the bedside light, the screen lit up with Courfeyrac’s reply. 

_Good boy.  We’ll talk tomorrow._

Smiling, he let the phone drop back to the table, switched off the light and shuffled to the bed by the flickering light of the TV, wincing a bit as climbing on the bed pulled at the skin on his back.  Enjolras had done his best but it couldn’t really be bandaged with what they had, not without tape ending up on a wound somewhere.  Still he’d tried, cleaned everything and put ointment on what he could, and after some painkillers and dinner, the pain had started to recede. 

Grantaire slipped under the sheet, wriggling around to try to get comfortable on his side to face Enjolras, but he wouldn’t have it.  His arms were open, and he beckoned Grantaire closer. 

“Come here.” 

Gladly.  He shifted over to lay against him, grateful when Enjolras lay his arm to the side instead of curving it over Grantaire’s back like he normally would’ve.  With his right hand he caught Grantaire’s left, drew it to his lips to kiss gently over his pulse.  Just before they’d come back to the bedroom he’d rubbed aloe into the burns for the second time, and though it stung initially once that faded the coat of gel felt almost as comforting as the brush of his lips. 

Grantaire lay his head against Enjolras’ shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, for last night.”  He’d said he was sorry for everything else but this, this seemed unfinished.  He could see it in Enjolras’ eyes as he’d stroked the burns on his wrists. 

Enjolras lay his head back, his face shadowed as the screen turned dim for the darkness of a night scene.  “Sorry you went home with another man or sorry you were so irresponsible about it?”

“Either.  Both.”

“On the first count, we weren’t together.  I won’t say it doesn’t hurt, but you have nothing to apologize for.  You said you were never unfaithful to me; I believe you.  I’ve never doubted it.  On the second…”  He stroked Grantaire’s cheek, calloused fingers tracing familiar curves of skin and bone.  “Promise me, never again.  Not like that.  Please.” 

Grantaire’s chest tightened, and his hand curved against Enjolras’ jaw.  “You said you choose me.”

“I do.”

“Then it’ll never be an option.” 

The screen lightened just enough to give a glow to those beautiful blue eyes right before Enjolras pulled him down to kiss him. 


End file.
